Linda Chapter 3

Although this novel is told primarily in chronological order, this chapter and the one before it, "Crispin", tell of events taking place before Stella's segment.

“Legend holds that the devils composed several handbooks on magic and hid the under Solomon' s throne. After his death, they urged his courtiers to dig under his throne to learn how he had secured control over

            His Office is to discover the Virtues of the Birds and precious stones”(The Book of the Goetia of Solomon    

               the King)

LINDA

1

LONDON, ENGLAND

1884

“He’s a lecherous old one, mind you.  What we done—he’d do to you if he could.”  Matthew’s handsome face was full of concern.  His caring was a lie, but she enjoyed the pretense.

“You sound just like Mum,” she sighed.  She stroked the small wisps of blond whiskers on his face.  He was nineteen, but could pass for younger-- not much taller than she, Linda, was at fourteen.  “I’ll be careful—as careful as can be.” Linda gave him a lingering kiss.

 “So what do you think they do?” He asked.  He was getting excited.

 “Sex orgies”, she whispered, her eyes wide with feigned horror, “with them running about all naked…”

“What a sight,” he said and he did a dance, miming a lot of flopping skin, “some of them old ones—bouncing about!”

She laughed, throwing herself down in the fresh hay. In a nearby stall, a horse whinnied. Matthew put his finger to his lips. “Careful—we don’t want anyone to hear, do we?” He fell down beside her and slipping his hand under her starched white apron and inside her unbuttoned blouse, he traced her n****e.  Linda removed his hand and buttoned her blouse.  She stood up, straightened her apron and frowned as she looked for telltale straw. While she made a careful inspection, the boy reached up and pulled her skirt—not ready for her to leave--just yet.

 She shook her head. “That’s enough,” she said, “got work to do--so do you.”

“Tomorrow,” he demanded, still tugging on her skirt, “you’ll tell me—spill all of it-- promise!”

His curiosity was her hold on him. He rarely came to the house-- his place being in the stables.  Something else, Matthew Oldman, something else will soon hold you.  Looking down at his pleading face, she enjoyed the moment. Freeing her skirt from his grasp, her expression grew solemn.

“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” His face fell. Linda hesitated, savoring his disappointment.  Mischief filled her brown eyes.  “Or not!” she teased.

 He gave her a pained look.  The girl threw her head back and laughed—her auburn hair in disarray. The sound of her high-pitched giggle carried throughout the stable and a horse began to kick its stall.  Matthew jumped up and looked to see if anyone heard. They were alone. “Tomorrow!” she assured him as she left.  Crossing the grounds, she smiled to herself.  Maybe, maybe not—she hadn’t decided.

Slipping through a back door, she paused.  There were voices. In the laundry, her mother Rebecca was complaining to Betty, “…and I don’t know what to do—the girl won’t listen.  If only her dad hadn’t died…” Another voice interrupted—the housekeeper, Mrs. Hamilton—scolding them both for wasting time… so much to be done. “Sorry Mrs. H.—almost finished.”  Her mother hated Mrs. Hamilton.

 “Your daughter—where is she?”  Mrs. Hamilton returned Rebecca’s animosity.

 Lord Towning preferred pretty women.  With their red hair and generous figures, Linda and her mother were, as Sir Charles required—easy on the eye.  Dismissing them would cause Mrs. Hamilton aggravation, as she would be required to find attractive (and qualified) replacements—a task, in her opinion, unworthy of her time.

 “Not feeling well today.” Rebecca answered in a flat voice. 

“Which means what?” The housekeeper was having none of it.

“Linda will have them ready.” Rebecca said—her tone reassuring.

 “She’d better!”  Mrs. Hamilton warned. 

Linda looked in a small hand mirror and smoothed her hair. After adjusting her cap, she checked the clock—almost two.  Good--she’d spent less than an hour in the stables. Opening a closet, she slid out the stack of embroidered robes.  She hurried into the laundry room and seeing Mrs. Hamilton, gave her a bright smile.  “All finished, Mrs. H.. Shall I put them in the library?  Linda glanced at her mother.  Rebecca gave her a suspicious look.  I don’t care, thought Linda, she’s almost thirty-one—past it all.   She has no idea of what it is to be young. 

Mrs. Hamilton’s clipped speech showed her low opinion of her young subordinate “What do you think, girl? Use your brain.  Of course—the library.”  

Lord Towning’s annual gathering of selected members of “The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn” (Cook called it--The Heretic Order of the Golden Dawn) always put Mrs. Hamilton in a sour mood—the task of tending to over twenty weekend guests, their varied whims and special requirements taxing her limited patience.

 Linda carried the ceremonial robes up the narrow stairs and onto the ground floor.  She had spent the early morning ironing the flowing gowns, taking care not to snag the intricate embroidery. Down the marbled hallway, she could see that the tall doors of the library were ajar.  Inside, several men were moving a massive table, recently delivered, especially for the coming event.  “From Morocco—found it last year.” Linda heard Lord Towning boast. Linda wished he’d lost it after he found it.  It was an eyesore and, with all the curves and carvings and crevices (Matthew laughed when she described it) a nightmare to dust and polish.

The library was an inviting place.  Its many windows let in the afternoon light and the graceful Oriental drapes pulled back, allowing light to fill the room.  When perched on a ladder, swiping her duster across the innumerable books that lined the walls, or carefully rubbing the endless pieces of exotic art and treasure gathered from Lord Towning’s trips, Linda would often lay her duster down and descend the ladder.   After checking both sides of the long hall, and listening for footsteps, she’d close the door. Selecting a book from a lower shelf, the maid crawled into one of the plush chairs. She could barely read, but felt it only proper to have an open book in her lap while nestled in the soft cushions, pretending she was a lady.  Only for a minute or two, she’d tell herself.  Sometimes, she imagined the family portraits hanging throughout the room, glared with disapproval at her liberties.

Piss off, she answered, glaring back at the generations of wealth and privilege. Still, she was careful, especially after she was nearly caught.  She had fallen asleep, the book (it was in Latin and she couldn’t read it, and for the life of her, couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to) in her lap. Voices in the echoing hall woke her and she leaped out the chair in a panic, looking for a place to hide.  She saw the tall cabinet opposite the fireplace.  After replacing the book, she hid--just as the door opened.   Servants brought fresh flowers, placed them on side tables and soon to her great relief, she was alone again, her pretense undiscovered.

Then it came to her—she would hide and see what went on in the library.

2

            “May I see it?” The sound of voices startled her and Linda awoke feeling stiff---her legs folded to fit inside the shelf.  Because Mrs. Hamilton’s sharp eye was distracted by the needs of the distinguished guests attending the evening’s events, Linda had managed to mask her disappearance by appearing busy—folding what seemed to be stacks of napkins—most of them done in advance, covered by an unfolded few. 

“In time, dear lady, in time…”  It was Sir Charles.  The master of the house was a corpulent man in his early sixties with thinning white hair.

Linda was curious about just what there was to see.  She sincerely hoped that it wasn’t that part of Sir Charles he decided to show her one late afternoon in the hallway, before the appearance of Mrs. Hamilton prevented whatever his Lordship had in mind.  Matthew went breathless with laughter when she described Mrs. Hamilton’s face—“Her bulging eyes popped out even further and her mouth hung like it came loose from its hinges.” After recovering from the sight of Sir Charles with “his old sausage hanging out like a treat for the hounds” Linda laughed too.

There was laughing now, as someone made light of “Crowley’s obsession”.  A man claimed to be offended and suggested that the topic be changed—there were “ladies” to consider.  While one servant collected emptied champagne glasses, another served full ones. Linda noticed a faint odor.  She tried to place it. It smelled like cigars, but they were rarely smoked in mixed company.  “Incense”, she heard a woman say. Her curiosity piqued, Linda cracked the cabinet door—careful now, she thought.

            How many guests?  Matthew would ask.  Peering out as much as she dared, she tried to count—at least eighteen.  She couldn’t see the entire room from the open cabinet door, unless she risked discovery—unthinkable. Many were frequent visitors, though there were unfamiliar faces. She heard several foreign accents.  French, she decided, and Polish, or…not important.  She was exhausted-- eighteen hours—ironing, dusting, folding, and cleaning.  She wanted it to be over—never mind what went on, she didn’t care.  Except for three beautiful women -- the younger wives of wealthy men--they were all impossibly old. 

Linda wanted to leave—crawl into bed with her mother, curl up and sleep.  Hiding in this cramped cabinet, for what--to see foolish old rich people prance around naked—the men with their wrinkled willies and the women with their saggy breasts?  She would make up a story—perhaps devil worship with human sacrifice.  That would drive Matthew mad--string him along, pretend that it was too traumatic to tell all at once.  He’d be at her mercy for weeks—then she’d let him know who was boss.  Oh, yes, he would know that soon enough. There would be no escaping what he owed.

             As they enjoyed refreshments and speculated on what Lord Towning had in mind for the evening’s secret event, the guests were wearing the robes that she had spent hours ironing. Mrs. Hamilton had given her strict orders. “Lord Towning is very concerned that his instructions be followed. All of the embroidery, especially the images of trees and birds in flight must be free of any creases,” said Mrs. H., looking quite the witch with her widow’s peak.  The housekeeper wore her light brown hair in a narrow roll at her nape, allowing no stray hair to escape. The hairline revealed a high forehead.  Linda, who followed current fashion, wondered why the older woman didn’t try to soften it with a fringe of curls.

 The threads in the embroidery glinted as the robes passed through the light. Candles placed throughout the room caused a trick of the eye. The images seemed to move--the birds’ wings flapping.  Linda was surprised to see the pattern on the creamy Oriental drapes matched that of the robes. The drapes were drawn shut--whatever happened in the candlelight would remain secret.

 Linda heard a woman order the servants to leave.  She fought the urge to spring from her hiding place and go with them.  Was there a story she could tell—something to say to keep from being dismissed—her mother with her?  Mrs. Hamilton would be happy to oblige. No--too late to change her mind—too late now.  The brass on the tall doors clanked as they opened and shut.  The locks slid—then, silence.

 “And now”, Sir Charles announced, the pride heavy in his tremulous voice, “The Key of Solomon!” Sir Charles held up a large book, laced with thick gold threads.  Linda could see what looked like rubies and emeralds embedded in its spine.  He held it as if it were a newborn and he its proud mother. She wondered how much such a thing was worth.  The thought of stealing it and running off crossed her mind.  She dismissed it as impractical, knowing inevitably, she’d be caught.

An excited murmur arose as Sir Charles thundered, “Silence! We summon Him.  We call His dreaded army from Planes of Power.  We summon--- He who grants new life!  We summon--- He who devours the weak!”  Chanting began as he moved through the room. “Place your offerings.  Pledge your faith. Pay tribute.” he repeated in a droning voice.  His face, usually ruddy from abundant food and drink looked pale—the candles’ light creating planes on ample cheeks, hollows where there had been none before.

A curious “ping” caused Linda to open the door another inch and she saw each participant place a small stone in a silver dish that lay on the table. An older woman presented a large sack and pulled out a black rooster that was protesting and flapping its wings.  Wielding a ceremonial knife, Sir Charles decapitated it and plopped the severed head into the silver dish.

A fire sprang up--its flames shooting out of the confining hearth and into the room.  Some in the room laughed nervously and moved away.  There were sighs as the flames died. Without warning, the blaze exploded.  Those near the hearth sprang back.  Many glanced at the lock on the heavy doors.  Linda wondered how quickly they could open—how long to escape?

Noise—like a thousand hammers pounding wood, then--small flames, glowing tongues, freed themselves from their source in the fireplace and floated through the room.  The flames hovered in the air for a moment causing a frightened woman to shrink back and move to the doors.  She pulled on the bolt, trying to slide it.  As if welded shut, the lock refused to respond.  Linda saw her remove her rings—perhaps they were preventing her from getting an adequate grip.  The woman whimpered, seeing it made no difference. A man reached over and taking the knobs firmly, pulled. He looked surprised--it wouldn’t move.  No matter what might happen, no one was leaving now.

The flames moved to a wall of books, illuminating their titles, as they paused—not long enough to burn--crawling from volume to volume.  A few jumped to the portraits, moving up and down, as if licking the proud faces.

 Suddenly, Sir Charles began to cry:  We call you! Ehieh,Iod,TetragrammatonElohim, El, Elohim Gibor, Eloah Va-Daath, El Adonai Tzabaoth, ElohimTzabaoth, Shaddai. Ningiszida”!  Again he cried, “Ehieh, Iod, Tetragrammaton Elohim, El, ElohimGibor, Eloah Va-Daath, El Adonai Tzabaoth, ElohimTzabaoth, Shaddai. Ningiszida! 

The room, stifling from the intense fire became cold causing the breath of those present to be visible. CAW!  A crow appeared from the shadows, dropping down to the table, it perched on the edge of the silver dish.  It pecked at the stones, as if examining them, then cocked its head to one side and let out another CAW!  The crow took flight and began circling the room.

The Moroccan table shook and the silver bowl, filled with pebbles, rattled loudly. A rumble came from the table—as if someone were chuckling—someone with a deep, rich voice--terribly amused. The pebbles floated out of the bowl and began to strike the foreheads of the distinguished guests.  They bounced playfully—striking one forehead, springing to another. An odor swept into the room. It was rich with sour decay—causing guests to gag, many staggering as they reached with one hand to grasp one another to steady themselves while the other hand clasped over their face to ward of the stench.

 The rumbling laughter grew louder.  Discovery became the least of Linda’s fears. She felt an awful dread, as if something terrible were about to occur.  Of what she wished for, the most urgent was to run—to burst from her hiding place, cross the room, hurry out the tall doors and into the safety of her mother’s arms.  Making an effort to flee she discovered she was paralyzed—her muscles frozen.  Unable, even to blink, she stared at the horror before her.

The cabinet door flew off its hinges--an invisible hand wrested and hurled it.  As the door flew across the room, it struck a woman--her head slammed down and crushed—blood spilling on the polished floor.

 Unblinking, burning, Linda’s eyes watered, tears spilling down her cheeks.  The invited guests—those who were still alive—screamed in pain and begged for mercy.  A man tripped on the edge of his robe, knocking another man down, into the edge of a table. She heard the snap as the second man’s neck broke.  One of the young wives struggled to remove her robe, shrieking, “It’s stuck—it’s stuck—someone help me.”  As the tears fell onto Linda’s frozen hands, she saw the woman’s graceful fingers claw her robe as it clung and melted, as if someone had poured  molten white-gold on her.

Before she was completely blinded, Linda saw flames bouncing throughout the room—and eyes … From the silver bowl, a mist appeared and took the shape of a yawning mouth.  Sir Charles was lifted up—his fat white body exposed as the robe hiked up and covered his face.  As he bellowed like an old bull led to the slaughter, the fog-mouth swallowed him whole.  Then--darkness.

3

 She was floating.  Not far--she could still hear the faint cries of the guests.  Darkness…then she felt something—a being within her--searching...  for what?  Oh, yes—the baby--yes, of course.  Magic—she thought, as she considered her child--the small thing that made her scheme—to punish Matthew—make him pay, as she would pay, and now—it didn’t matter.

She followed the sinewy being—its long fingers outstretched and groping as it found the tiny human curled within her.  The yellow flames in its eyes detached and clung to the red claws as they trailed wisps like maypole ribbons.  The creature began to dance.  The baby’s eyes followed the swirl of ribbons.  The creature was whispering something in her child’s unformed ear. The fetus’ rocked its head and waved its stubby arms and legs.  She struggled to get closer--what was it saying that stirred her child? She knew the baby wanted to detach itself and leave her. Linda wished it could leave—she would let it go, but her baby stayed--at least for a while.

 

4

 ABERDARE, WALES

MAR--SEPT. 1886

As the train lurched and hissed, Rebecca watched for the tavern.  She would see it soon—the sign Ram’s Head, and though it was early in the day, the comings and goings of men through the pub’s door. Those without work—their shoulders rounded and hands stuffed deep into pockets, crept in and emerged unchanged hours later. Clouds of steam rising in the cold air obscured everything but the dark movement of a scattering of figures—people waiting to greet the train from London. She saw the shake of a horse’s head and a wagon. 

Where was the Ram’s Head?  She’d seen it from a train window on the day she left.  Pints, music, darts, an occasional fight—the Ram’s Head was where her brothers spent so many hours—those hours not in the mine.  It wasn’t a place for a young girl, they said. Go home now, or we’ll tell.  The mine took them when the cage fell, and she swore she’d never come back.  Now, there was nowhere else to go, but Aberdare.

Early in their journey, Linda’s whispered pleas, “N-n-n-ooo…” had resulted in the migration of fellow passengers to other cars. Mother and daughter rode alone, the rows of empty seats rattling as Rebecca traveled the path she vowed to leave behind. As the train pulled into Aberdare, Wales, and her mother peered through the window, Linda lay stretched across her mother’s lap.

 Clouds threatened a storm as Rebecca searched for the Ram’s Head, and found her father instead. His cap pulled down, hiding his face, but she knew the faded coat—she had mended it countless times.  Two older men she recognized—acquaintances of her father’s—certainly not friends—her father tolerated little that would pass for friendship—were  waiting and carried Linda and their luggage to his wagon.  Rebecca trembled as she followed them.  It had been fifteen years since she had left.

 Her father, his tall frame bent from years of shoeing horses, stood quietly, his eyes distant when they met hers. He loaded their belongings next to his limp granddaughter.  “Your hair—it’s white,” she said.  His brows still showed red as they hung low over his brown eyes.  Without a word, he climbed onto the wagon.  His voice was high-pitched, and graveled as he said, “Let’s get her home while there’s no rain.”

 There was silence as he drove the wagon to the modest house where she was born.  She looked for familiar faces on the way.   A few appeared—a playmate she barely recognized, waved shyly—most avoided her glance, or stared in curiosity—hoping for a glimpse of Linda.  The wagon swayed and bumped along the uneven road, but Linda remained unaware—caught deep in whatever dream held her.  As the horse drew them near the small cottage, Rebecca’s only thought was that it needed paint—the white was nearly gone. 

Her father never looked in her direction, nor in Linda’s.  Her dead mother had been the only link between them. Rebecca and her blacksmith father were strangers, but she had no one else, nor did Linda.  He carried Linda into the dingy bedroom of Rebecca’s childhood.  Laying her on the narrow bed—the blankets thick with dust and neglect, he said, “There’s soup for the both of you. I expect you to earn your keep.” With those words, he left.

Even in Aberdare, Wales, people had heard. Twenty people, including Lord Towning, died that night--all but Sir Charles had burned, their robes melted into their charred bodies.  Sir Charles bled to death—his body discovered on the Moroccan table, the silver bowl wedged between his legs.  Despite it all, when the resistant doors suddenly opened for the bewildered servants, other than the charred corpses, they revealed no evidence of fire or intruders.

Her blacksmith father sheltered his widowed daughter and her child; Rebecca earned their keep by taking in laundry.  It wasn’t long before Linda’s pregnancy was obvious.  Wincing at his scorn, she was relieved when he didn’t turn them out. Months passed, uneventful but for the sleeping girl’s changing body. 

As she awaited the birth of her grandchild, she bathed and fed Linda, who was helpless as a newborn.  At times, Rebecca thought she was coming back to her.  Linda’s eyes would search--her expression frantic --a whispered word repeated—No—no-no-no-no-no-no….

5

ABERDARE---SEPT. 6, 1885

“Do you think she can hear me?” Rebecca was hopeful. “I don’t have any idea, perhaps…,” the midwife answered as she leaned over and considered her patient’s placid face.  “Linda, dear, Linda…listen to me...the baby’s coming.”  The midwife shook her head and tried again.  “Do you hear me, girl?  Your baby—it’s coming soon.”

The figure in the bed lay unmoving--her eyes closed.  The hair that grew on what was left of Linda’s scalp was still a glorious auburn.  It hung in thin patches not covered by the scars.  On Linda’s face, there were few scars, but her complexion had a grayish cast.  Rebecca comforted herself by thinking it was better than the charred black it had been.

  Rebecca sat in a rocking chair, its steady creak ticking away the hours.  Can Linda hear it? Perhaps when the baby came, free of the burden, Linda would return. Except for the midwife, Rebecca sat alone. Linda’s grandfather chose to stay away.

“Oh dear, oh my dear…” The midwife frowned as she listened to Linda’s heart. She tucked clean rags and towels under her patient, replacing those that were blood soaked. She sighed, “Your girl is dying.”  Staring at the rags, Rebecca was surprised that she felt nothing.  Is this how it is—she wondered—is this how you get through it—the loss of a child?

  As the baby slipped out and into the midwife’s gnarled hands, Linda’s eyes sprang open. The midwife wrapped the new baby boy in a warm blanket. Rebecca stroked her daughter’s face. There was a gasp.  Rebecca jumped back as Linda sat up and shouted, “NO!”  “No what, Linda?” Rebecca sobbed.  “What, my baby?” Rebecca’s hands reached out. The numbness was gone—loss tumbled onto Rebecca as Linda fell back and turned her face. One last sigh escaped before Linda’s eyes widened and rolled back.

Rebecca sang a lullaby as she held her daughter’s dead hand. The midwife tapped her shoulder. “You have a grandson…here, hold him now.”  Taking the small bundle, Rebecca slid her index finger delicately between the soft folds of the blanket, uncovering the baby’s face.  Revulsion overwhelmed her as the infant’s eyes—yellow and cold, stared back.

Three days later Rebecca found an old woman willing to take her grandson, named Bernard, to a London orphanage.  She hoped he would die there, but she doubted he would.  The child had a way of making his needs met.  She wanted him far away while he was small and weak—while her mind still belonged to her.

Nine years passed. Linda rested in the ground next to the two uncles she never met and Rebecca now lived in the cottage alone—her stern father dead from a cancer that took his dignity along with his life. The post had arrived the day before and as she sat rocking, her body aching from scrubbing and ironing the laundry of single men and the well-to-do, she opened an envelope marked St. Stephen’s Home for Orphans.  He’s dead she thought—hoped—please, I can’t…. Someone had sent a newspaper clipping detailing the murder of Mrs. Rita Croft and the disappearance of Crispin Baker—known as Professor Theosopho, a self-proclaimed psychic. Police were questioning guests at a fundraiser held for the benefit of an orphanage, and attended by Mrs. Croft and the Professor.  The name circled, it was the same orphanage where her grandson had been taken.  The note enclosed with the clipping said, “He’s missing.  Say a prayer that he stays lost.”  That night, Rebecca prayed that her grandson stayed lost forever.

 

 

 

 

 

            

Reviews

[Mark Hensley]

I like this story. It has a lot going for it. I was surprised at how quickly I became invested in the characters. The story line is also unpredictable with some nice twists, which keeps the reader interested.